


Of Plums and Flesh

by wormlover



Series: Oddities [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 2018-2019, Historical, Poetry, Tragic Romance, prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27026053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wormlover/pseuds/wormlover
Summary: you saw the world asno one dared to see it.a wild sea of breakingleaves and howlingbranches.
Series: Oddities [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087133





	Of Plums and Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Original title from the file created sometime between 2018-2019 was “Wild: Chapter 1 - Aurora Revolution \ Chapter 2 - Raw Flesh”.

He was a wild one, a nice wilder.

Not a rough one but a man that could whisper my name onto the rose's petals in sunkissed yellow with ease. He was an artist, an anarchist against all formalities. A fighter for the sun and the moon and the fire in his lungs, ready to scream his name to the last corner of this world, this solar system, this galaxy, this universe; to the last corner of his being. He saw me and told me I was soft and therefore now his. He loathed for my love but in silence and it seemed as if his solitude was dark and as sad as the skies but his bones ached whenever I had passed and his skin would burst apart like the thin one of a ripe orange, so his paint tainted fingers could touch me. When they did my body yearned for fire and hell, my mind for a golden revolution in my legs, which walked upon his fields of attention. He was firm and I was now as well because I was his truly – he devoured every bit of my being as if I was a freshly plucked plum in his hands. He kissed me with his parting lips and tore me apart and swallowed me whole with hair and heart. I considered !; then my name had been Hyperion, so now it was Putrescit and he took my name. He was I and I was he. 

He could hold my stars in his bronze palms and draw them so tenderly, he could walk upon my body but hurt me not. His tongue was heavy with words that would not roll over the tip of this spit-slick muscle, but he had not yet perished this aurora revolution of love.

Not, not, not.

It was all a game of fear and sweat when I stole my body away from my father's gaze, gifted myself to Putrescit whole. He had asked me once, on a hot post-summer afternoon at a lake, hidden behind trees and boats he had painted often before. - Do you kiss the sky as delicate as me? and I denied wholeheartedly because there was no planet, neither sky nor angel I would have wanted to taste so softly but him.

This painter against all odds of his heart and mind. It was one thousand and eight hundred years after they started to count, but our citrus smelling fingers had touched so often before.

For him I wore a female dress, for me he wore my name on his lips.

\- Hyperion, Hyperion

It was silly.

Silly as the paintings of my body spread and raw for him, blushed with the shame of exposure but his voice soothed me with promises of beauty and ethereality, which he drew the best. I was from a well family, chewing on gold and apollo's flesh when he did not, but my heart held him like he was noble and filled to the brim with diamonds.

And when our romance had to die, then so did I and even when it was only inside.

And he filled my torn apart corpse with flowers of old memories that withered as they soaked themselves with my blood like sponges.

It was in 1837 when we shone brighter than the sun itself.

He was a painter and I was the forbidden fruit in his still life.

He was everything I dared him to be.

He was wild and I merely a sheep.

**Author's Note:**

> \\\ unfinished


End file.
